A Cage For the Ivory Elephant
by Kpasa
Summary: It is time for Mary to be introduced into society, forcing her to choose between what is expected of her and what her heart truly desires. Dickon is the only one that can save Mary from turning into her own mother, and to reveal the true magic within her.
1. I

**Disclaimer: Every character essentially belongs to Frances Hodgson Burnett and any spin-off or movie that has arisen from this novel. This is based mainly on the 1993 movie version.

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_It would be good to give much thought, before  
you try to find words for something so lost,  
for those long childhood afternoons you knew  
that vanished so completely -and why?_

"_Childhood" -Rainier_

**A Cage for an Ivory Elephant**

**Chapter 1**

Mary gasped in startled pain as her ribs felt very nearly to the breaking point. She clutched her hands to the table as shoots of mind-numbing flashes seared along her chest. Her pulse quickened considerably as her breath was restrained to short, tiny gasps. She ran one hand alongside the curve of her side as she stared up at Miss Medlock in shock, a look of disbelief etching across her face.

"Please, please I beg you Miss Medlock, loosen the strings some more. I cannot breathe."

The only answer Mary received was a tight jerk against her rib cage. The corset made what little extra skin Mary had, which was barely any, and deemed it invisible to the naked eye. Mary stared across onto the nearby dresser, focusing on her pain and dwindling it away, staring intently upon the tiny ivory elephant that sat idly by, majestic despite the ridicule of its missing trunk. She gazed upon every curve and plane that etched secretly alongside its carved scratching, all the while wincing silently at every tug that marred her already perfect figure.

Miss. Medlock stood towering above her, a black shroud bent on creating as much physical pain for Mary as possible. It wasn't that she disliked the girl; it was only that she had felt as though she failed Mr. Archibald Craven.

Mary recently turned sixteen years old, and still had never experienced the womanly obligations of corsets and of maintaining perfect manners. Mr. Craven had placed Mary's introduction into society into Medlock's hands, and because Mary seemed to have impeccable manners around guests, Medlock simply assumed that the girl was fit for the time being. It was only recently that she realized Mary was no longer a child when, on the prowl for the young Colin Craven merely a week ago, she glimpsed an absolutely horrendous sight. There was Mary and the gardener boy, the young Sowerby, romping around upon Misselthwaite grounds tickling each other into frenzy. What Medlock saw, however, horrified her beyond reasonable proportions. Mary's skirt was hiked up ever-so slightly from trying to resist the advantages of the older boy, revealing, and horrors upon horrors, a quick flash of ankles and the ruffle of her undergarments. Well, as long as Miss. Medlock was head housekeeper of Misselthwaite manor, no lady of the house, servant or otherwise, would be going about revealing such improper attributes. Especially to a Sowerby boy. With each passing thought Medlock jerked against the strings of the corset, oblivious to the hiss of pain emitted from the girl. She had waited long enough, and it was obvious that Mary had already acquired the curves that arrive with the coming of womanhood, it was time. Thankfully Mary had been hiding most of her new found body under layers of simple clothing appropriate for gardening.

'That Dickon boy would be hard-pressed to find anything to his liking underneath those clothes', she contemplated bitterly.

A restricted gasp broke through her reverie. She stepped back and her eyes traced the undergarment that encaged the young Mary's body like an extra skin. Her waist was deemed suitably tinier, and the girl's breasts were pushed ever so slightly higher. Medlock surveyed the strings with an impenetrable eye, and nodded her head curtly.

"This will do for now. I won't have you wearing it today; it does need some adjustments however."

Mary tensed her shoulders and stood up tall, staring numbly at Miss. Medlock's stoic reflection upon the gilded-crested framed mirror sitting softly upon the dresser. A few candles provided the only light in the darkened room.

"Miss. Medlock, why must I wear this? I find myself hardly capable of breathing!"

Medlock stared straight-faced into the reflection, settling her cold gaze on the defiant eyes of the young girl.

"You, Miss Mary, are no longer a child. You will be introduced to society as your mother and aunt before you have done respectably and on time. I have conferred with Mr. Craven, and we have both agreed you deserve a coming out ball, meaning it is your turn to play your part in society. It is up to in finding, perchance and god be willing, a wealthy and important suitor."

Mary widened her eyes in pure horror. She clenched her knuckles for a moment, letting silence reign for a moment or two. When she finally gained her voice, she looked up into the reflection and spoke firmly, her voice strong and cold.

"Miss. Medlock, whatever plans you have set for me, I must deter you. I refuse to participate in another scheme of people dictating my life for me. I cannot imagine marrying a man I do not love merely for the sake of society. I canno…"

She was not given the chance to finish as Miss. Medlock suddenly swerved Mary's body to face her own and as swiftly as she had turned the girl around she slapped Mary with an unimaginable speed. The girl cried out and clutched onto the table-top for support, the sound of the slap resonating in the slight echo of the spacious room.

"Listen here, child, you did not come here to Misselthwaite so that you could be free as one of your precious flowers. You have an obligation to Mr. Craven and I and to all of Misselthwaite, and the best way you can fulfill it is to marry and marry well. Even your cousin Colin would be an appropriate choice. Mr. Craven gave me the duty to set you off in society, and I will not fail him. As long as I am in charge of this, you will not be permitted to have a say in this matter."

All Mary could do was stare in open-mouthed horror as her mind went numb over Medlock's words, a red mark creeping along her cream painted cheek. Miss. Medlock glanced at the reddening skin and sighed pityingly. Her eyes softened as she placed a hand to Mary's cheek.

"I know my dear, I understand how you feel. No woman wants to live under the hand of another. But I'm afraid that that is how it has always been done, and just because you are an orphan does not change the matter. This is how it has to be. I'm sorry for slapping you, my dear, but it was the only way to wake you up to your senses."

Mary stared silently into the softened face of the woman who cared for her, though not lovingly, for the past six years. She stepped back, never releasing her eyes off the hawk-eyed gaze of Miss. Medlock.

"Now, young Miss, please change into something suitable and leave the corset upon the bed, I will retrieve Martha to take it in for alterations."

With that Medlock swung on her heels, and without a second glance backwards opened the door smartly, only to crash into the elder Sowerby sister.

"Oh, Miss, I canna be sorry enouh, t'is me clumsy heels, you see, I find myself tripping over and about. Does tha forgive me?"

Medlock crossed her arms across her chest, glaring at the young woman with one eye brow raised.

"The next time you are listening at the door, Martha, try to stand a few paces away. If you heard well enough, remember to take the corset in to the shop."

Martha bowed her head in shame and replied, a tint of the ever-apparent amusement still lining her words.

"Aye ma'am. That I will."

With that reply Medlock disappeared in a black huff down the hallway. Martha stared as she turned the corner, mocking her very words with her lips. She turned towards the entrance of Mary's room, still making fun of Medlock.

"Well then, I wonder what has gotten that lasses knickers into a twist."

However, one sight of Mary trembling at the dresser stole all the words from Martha's mouth. There the young girl stood, her hand clutching a finger-tainted face, entombed in strings of corsets and undergarments. The light of one remaining candle flickered, dancing shadows fluttering upon her perfect skin. Mary would not permit herself to cry, instead staring in shock upon the wooden floor. Martha let out a small cry and rushed to her side, coaxing her and resting her own hand upon the red marks.

"Oh, Miss Mary, what has tha' done to provoke her? T'is 'bout the marriage thing, I know it. Dinna listen to her, lass, she's jus' bitter 'cause old Mr. Townsend ne'er wanted to marry 'er. Thee must marry for love, miss."

Mary swung around, facing the table yet again, her arms trembling with obvious tenseness. She stood up tall, resting her hands upon the table.

"Please, just take the corset off. I can not even breathe, much less think. No questions, Martha."

Silently, Martha began to untie the strings that bound the young girl together, disgusted by the contraption and staring forlornly at poor Miss Mary, for having to be subjected to this monstrosity. Silence descended like a plague, the only sound was the silk of the strings rustling. Neither would talk for many minutes, until eventually it was Mary that broke the silence.

"You know perfectly well whom it is I love, Martha." Her voice was cold and distant, refusing to display any emotion.

Martha could not resist a tug of an excited smile quirk in the corner of her mouth. However, judging by the coldness in Mary's voice, she deemed it best not to answer. Immediately Mary felt guilty for being so rude, and spoke in a softer tone of voice.

"Oh Martha, where has the magic gone?

To this, Martha slowed almost imperceptibly, silence choking on her words. For this question, she had no answer. She continued to softly tug away at the strings, her heart lifting as Miss Mary's breath began to resume at a more normal pace. This was a moment in time in which Martha wished she would one day forget. Her, undoing the encaging corset binding such a wild creature in the dark, flickering room. All the while Mary stared numbly, with such intensity, at the forlorn, broken ivory elephant. The light from the candle flickering upon its sleek, white skin.

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_To be continued soon enough. Reviews are more then welcome ,lol. Thanks!_


	2. II

_**(A/N: I may have been a little bit dark in the previous chapter, I was hoping to incorporate the dark aspect of growing up later on, mainly because I didn't want to be like Susan Moody and rip the magic entirely out of the story, so I'm going to try to start off a little bit more softer and child-like—but just for a little while. So in essence I apologize for the shift between the dark mood and the light mood between these two chapters. Not a lot of talking in this chapter, more of a reflection.)**_

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_Between the dark and the daylight,_

_When the night is beginning to lower,_

_Comes a pause in the day's occupations,_

_That is known as the Children's Hour._

"_The Children's hour"- Longfellow_

**Chapter 2**

Mary awoke to the silent song of the moors, fluttering her lashes momentarily as her eyes caught the whiff of hazy sunlight drifting across the room and stealing away upon her satin bedcovers. She stretched her arms out with pure bliss, delighting in the warm bask of the rare sunlight that had erupted throughout the clouds. A halo of sun caught upon her porcelain palm, bouncing to and fro as though her very hand had encaged two shimmering fairies. Mary lay upon the majestic bed for a moment, vaguely wondering how she could have possibly thought Misselthwaite a dreadful place. In the distance the timber voice of the cook in the kitchen singing 'Greensleeves' wafted joyously into her room, reflecting merrily against the walls. She laughed silently, softly singing along to each verse. Mary turned her head and gazed lovingly towards the window, her eyes lingering upon its scratched pane surface, staring beyond into the endless sky that consumed more space then land itself. She knew it would be appropriate to get out of bed and face the day, but she preferred for the moment to relish the still silence of an awakening world. Mary knew her Uncle Archie would be in his study, sitting in his armchair and reading about various business prospects, whereas Martha would be casually searching through the pantry doors, hiding away leftovers for her younger siblings. Ben Weatherstaff would be struggling out of bed, sadly consumed with rheumatism, while Medlock (this thought did not seem to deter Mary from her good mood) would be creating unnecessary havoc amongst the servants. Unfortunately Colin was away at a boarding school in London, waking up to strict lessons and endless schoolwork. As told through the infinite letters Mary received due to her cousin's subtle cries for escape. Luckily he would arrive in no less a week for a short visit, much to Mary's delight. Meanwhile, her little friend the Robin would be out in search of earthly worms, while her dear blue-eyed Dickon would be tending to the garden…

"The garden!" Mary cried out and flung the heavy bedcovers off of her slim form.

She leapt up from her bed, her rich chestnut hair mussed from sleep and her nightgown practically hanging off. She picked up one dainty end of her dressing gown ignoring the shock of cold of the wooden floor against her slender feet as they hit the ground. She rushed across the room in exaggerated desperation and flung open the window, oblivious to the rush of fresh air that intoxicated her senses. Mary hurriedly gazed over the seas caped moors until her eyes settled upon the thick foliage that huddled joyously in the corner of this mind-numbing landscape. A flashing grin escaped her frenzied exterior as her eyes rested upon the hidden pillars of wall peeking through the thick foliage. Mary leaned out, letting the sky scrape their wispy wind-billowed fingers through her hair and momentarily believing she could fly. Without a second's hesitation she swiftly turned and rushed to her dressing cabinet, flinging the doors open and wildly searching through the hung clothes, when suddenly dread filled her entire being. There, in its starched proud entirety, rested the corset. Mary's body seemed to slowly freeze as she stared in dawning sense as she looked at the contraption, her jaw clenching unnoticeably. Her body stood rigid for a moment before she pushed it aside and said to herself in a firm voice,

"If she thinks that I will willingly wear that, that, _cage, _then she is sorely mistaken."

As Mary's resolve hardened into clear thought, she pushed the darkened thought into the recesses of her mind as she smiled at the lacy, pale blue muslin dress that shone merrily in the corner. As she slipped into the clingy yet soft dress, Mary reflected upon past memories at that same spot while laughing silently at the memory of the dozens of all-black dresses that she had owned when she first came from India, her cheeks reddening at the embarrassment of making Martha dress her. She gracefully sat onto the pillow-laden chair that rested beside her vanity, identical to the one her mother had owned in India. Mary brushed back her full hair, a rich yet spicy chestnut, lacing a blue ribbon through its strands. She knew she was taking special attention to her appearance lately, blushing at the very thought of _him. _She sat back, admiring the way her dress clung to her slender form, the lace patterned against her skin like henna. Her hair softened her maturing face as it streamed down her willowy back. She hoped he would notice, but she knew it was all in vain. Dickon, _her heart thumped oddly at the mere thought of his name_, was too blind by the mere wonders of the world around him that he couldn't notice the craving attentions from the young girl who obviously admired him from every aspect. Mary leaned back, discontented. She closed her satin eyes and pictured him, his memory etched in every corner of her mind. Truth be told, she loved everything about him. Some may call this infatuation, but Mary believed she loved him the moment he carved the bark off the tree and explained to her what 'wick' meant. She was a bitter, angry child, dead to the world. But without realizing it Dickon carved away her layers and revealed the wick inside of her own body, consequently gaining the love of a child who had never before experienced such a wondrous thing.

Mary positively adored his eyes, for they in fact were the mere reflections of the world around him. On a clear, spring day when the blue sky curtained over the moors, his eyes were the same glimmer of periwinkle that shone over the world. However when the grey, impregnated clouds drifted hauntingly over the rolling hills, his eyes seemed to reflect a silvery grey, mirroring the beautiful nature that his own soul seemed to be entwined in. Mary was sure that he was not of this world, a fairy child perhaps. He belonged to the earthly caresses of the fluttering leaves that swayed in the harvest breeze.

She loved his hands, the dirt stained fingers that lovingly caressed every bit of earth he touched. They were strong and capable, accustomed to years of hard labour, yet they would graze every so gently upon the musical notes from his instrument that had entranced the hearts of so many wild animals. His hands were like butterflies, fluttering bravely in a world gone mad. They embraced the earth gently blissfully with clear, firm command. They were capable hands, loving hands, absolutely magical hands.

The entire picture of Dickon enraptured Mary. Over the years he had grown tall and strong, his shoulders wide yet his body still lean. His baby fat had disappeared with age and muscle, yet had somehow remained in the boyish youthfulness of his face. Mary was sure that her stomach would flip over whenever he would flash her one of his crooked grins and his eerie eyes would crinkle with ever-apparent amusement, as though sharing a silent laugh with Mother Nature herself. Mary was bemused by the carefully trimmed brown, coarse hair that Dickon sported, an odd contrast to the wild nature he was enveloped in. The cut was still the same from when he was twelve years old, obviously by the ministrations of Mrs. Sowerby.

Mary groaned and rested her head against her arms, leaning over the laced-painted vanity. His voice, goodness gracious what she would give to wake up to that Yorkshire accent every morning? The old accents of the locals were even more predominant in the Sowerby family, music to Mary's ears. She would much prefer Dickon's voice rather then listening to Beethoven or even the rippling creek that roamed near the Secret Garden.

Mary suddenly laughed out loud, how ridiculous she looked. Here she was, pining over a boy who will probably never notice her and be forever entwined in the magic of his own reality. But by God, she even loved his bloody clothes! The earth-stained work shirt rolled up at the sleeves underneath his brown, open-buttoned vest. The dark grey pants coupled with his long work boots, topped off with his grey cap. Mary widened her eyes in horror, what a fool she was for dreaming about Dickon's clothes. He probably would never notice her, not even if she was dressed up like the Queen of England. She giggled again at her own stupidity, raising a hand to her falling hair. However her giggle was cut short as she thought about all those times in the garden, when the worked side by side while Colin would be nearby swinging off branches and such. Mary would look up from her carefully planted work, dirt painted along her cheek and a splatter of freckles sprinkled over her nose from the sun, only to see the intense, burning gaze of Dickon. The thing about him was that he would never look away, connecting his vision to whomever the gaze held. Mary would look away eventually, smiling uncomfortably although her cheeks burned with a surprised blush. They would work again in silence, aware only of each other's movements.

Dickon no longer lived with the Sowerby family, as there were too many children occupying the house and now that he was a lad of 18 he was entitled to move on. Lord Craven gave him the job of a full-time gardener, and the boy was currently living in an extra bedroom of Ben Weatherstaff's small cottage, though unbeknownst to everyone except for Archibald Craven, Dickon was building a small house. It was a little bit away along the moors, a piece of land given to him by Colin's father. If Mary knew about it, she would no doubt head over there, but this time it was a secret Dickon needed to keep quiet.

Mary opened her eyes in surprise as the door to her room suddenly swung open. It was Martha, and it seemed that she had arrived just in time to awaken Mary from her senses. The sun streamed gloriously upon her figure. In Martha's hands was the breakfast tray of tea and oatmeal. She flashed a heart-warming smile over to Mary and headed over to the table.

"G' mornin Miss Mary, 'ow tha' feeling today? Tha' still mad with Miss Medlock? What a prude, yeh? Anyway, I…"

However Martha was not given a chance to finish as Mary leapt up from the vanity in slight embarrassment and rushed over to her. She rested a quick peck on the cheek of the young servant and talked to her hurriedly.

"Good morning Martha! I'm so sorry you had to come all the way up here with that tray, but I am not even remotely famished. I must go to the garden, but thank you for the thought."

With that Mary rushed out of the door and slipped away, her dainty slippered feet disappearing silently down the hallway. Martha stood in her youthful amusement, smiling, though surprised, at Miss Mary's excitement. She placed the tray over to the table and wiped her hands on the apron. She knew the cause of the girl's excitement, yet her heart was both lifted and weighted down at the same time. Martha could not pick a better match for her wandering brother, yet she knew such a relationship would be impossible. She quirked her lips in disappointed reverie, and she moved closer to the window to close it. When she looked out, however, she could not resist a tug of a grin that erupted along her bemused face. She saw the young Miss Mary, running along the pathways of fields, her skirt lifted up by one hand and the other holding down a straw hat from the rushing wind. At the corner of Martha's mind she vaguely wondered how long the girl's freedom would last.

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**Well, I can honestly say that I was quite unprepared for all the reviews I received for just the first chapter. I see that The Secret Garden is much more popular then I originally thought. But they lifted my heart so much, so thank you all. I have one request to anyone and everyone that loves Secret Garden. I BEG you to write a short or long or medium fan fiction! There are so few of the Secret Garden stories that I must of read all of them a hundred times. Even if it's only a paragraph, I'm sure some fan out there will appreciate it and be glad that they are not the only people out there that love this story to the extent of continuing on about it through the form of fan fiction. Anyway, that's my daily ramble. **


	3. III

_Come away, O human child!  
To the waters and the wild  
With a fairy, hand in hand,  
For the world's more full of weeping  
than you can understand._

"Stolen Child"-Yeats

**Chapter 3**

'Dickon was wrong', Mary thought vaguely, "I could never get sick of roses."

She was standing outside of the Secret Garden, looking up at the pillars of the encasing walls and even amongst the highest trees it could not escape her attention that the laughing roses were peeking through the looming leaves. Honeysuckle wove its lace along the foliage-encrusted scene, its scent flying upon its rugs of gentle breeze. The ribbed-caged leaves stroked Mary's cheek as she pushed through the willowy wines that ensnared the oak door. With a hard push she was able to free the door, aware that it would not be locked. Not with Dickon tending the garden. Her heart thumped curiously at the thought, and because of this Mary barely had time to acknowledge the erupting beauty that sprung joyously from its prison of secrecy.

Every sense was consumed by mind-numbing serenity, her entire body seeping with petal-kissed beauty. Mary's heart constricted at the very image, her eyes watering for a moment as she gazed upon the silent perfection. The air itself was shimmering. She bent down and took off her India-designed slippers, revealing her pearl-laden feet. She daintily skipped down the entrance stairs, her pale fingers brushing the wild stems springing from the passing branches. She placed one hand over her straw hat to prevent it from being knocked down and the other to slightly push away the incoming branches. Mary peeked through the foliage, a smile lighting her innocent face as her eyes settled upon the magic that had saved her as a child. Finally, spring had awoken from its slumber. Wild flowers jumped gaily amongst the lavender thicket, towering trees guarding its Queen. It was a fey-rimmed realm. Enchantment was sprinkled throughout the Garden as though Aphrodite herself blew her kiss. Sunlight reflected off each sprite-pecked petal, springing off and shimmering against each bouncing particle of golden fairy dust. Mary closed her eyes, savouring this sweet sense of innocence. Scarce was heard amongst this fair-swept enchantment, coupled with the sweet music of the rustling branches, the swaying swing and red-breasted robin's on the stately earthworm prowl. The rippling of the silver-crested pond nearby lay seemingly motionless, though Mary was quite certain that a mystical goddess was in fact living at the bottom of the blue depths. Mary could see her now, in fact. Her hair spread out amongst the moving ripples, her silver eyes staring up in delight trying to catch rays lacing in and out like flighty birds through the pond. Her blue skin was enveloped in its silvery scales, her bubbling laughter frothing the surface. Willow trees hung gaily throughout the Garden, suspended by sweeping magic. Halos of sunlight danced in chaotic rhythm to the beat of Mother Nature, laughing gleefully. Rays of hazy sun drifted through the foliage and rested lazily upon moss-ripened glen.

Mary cocked her head thoughtfully. 'Where was Dickon?' She continued along her path, searching with a confused air. Her spicy brown eyes scanned the mystic-glossed Garden in search of the boy, amusement fading away into curiosity. She stepped on her toes and peeked through various branches, but no sign of her older friend was in sight. Mary wandered about for a moment or two, her eyebrows quirked in thoughtful concentration, before she moved up towards the majestic swing, by far the highest point in the Garden. But with a quick glance around she sighed with restrained disappointment. Perhaps he had errands to run, ever since he was employed as full-time help at Misselthwaite, it was slowly becoming a rarity that she had the chance to meet with him here. Mary's finger played restlessly against the coarse rope of the swing in frustrated silence. Everything was changing. These days it was as though Dickon was purposefully avoiding her, politely refusing to look her way. However Mary knew that they were still connected, especially when she would catch his intense gaze staring at her from afar. It meant nothing, she was sure. She knew the sad truth that adulthood would be in their near futures, especially with the coming of that damned corset. But even if they would one day wed and grow apart, to Mary, Dickon Sowerby would forever remain the lovable boy who could charm animals.

With another swift glance ahead of her, Mary shook her head in silence and moved towards the swing. As she was about to sit down, she was entirely oblivious to the rustling of the branches behind her. She was aware, however, when she felt the comforting pressure of two sturdy hands clasping her around her slender waist and lifting her up into the air. Her straw hat was flung to the ground. Mary let out a surprised shriek as she was suddenly off her feet and thus clutched the arms that held her up in terror, her knuckles whitening in shock.

"Put me down, put me down!" She cried, half laughing.

She heard a boyish laugh from behind her, and instantly she relaxed. She could recognize that Yorkshire lilt anywhere. Still chuckling, Dickon set her down and instantly swerved away as Mary swivelled to punch him lightly in the arm. She ignored the flip in her stomach and instead clapped him on the arm.

"You, you swine!" Mary cried, a smile lighting her face. "You scared the living daylights out of me! You're acting just like Colin, you know."

Dickon feigned mock despair and knelt down and clasped his hands together, as though begging for forgiveness. He first tipped his own cap in respect, then proceeded to pick up her strayed straw hat and held it up like a peace-offering.

"Forgive me Miss, I saw tha' standin' there and thee were as pretty as a robin, so I though' to meself, now there's a maid who would fancy a flyin' lesson as well."

Mary burst out laughing and turned around abruptly, snatching her hat back in the process. Still chuckling, she walked away from the swing, towards where the Princess of India sat enshrined by a meadow of lavender flowers. Pausing for a moment, she turned back still holding her straw hat, and spoke up, purposely flaunting a snobby voice.

"And here I was, thinking that you were such a fine gentlemen, and this how my kind thoughts have been repaid. Well, oh odious one, you may depart from my divine presence, as I prefer to have my royal feet stay forever loyal to the ground."

With that Mary swung around and walked away. Dickon stood up slowly, a crooked smile sketched along his boyish face. He had to admit, he was acting quite enthusiastic today. He was not himself, but he was never truly himself whenever he was near Mary. Dickon stared as she gently lowered herself amongst a thrush of lavender flowers, her pale blue muslin lace spreading along the ground like spilled honey. Her chestnut hair was straying in fine wisps around her hair, and he felt his gut clench. Mary leaned down and plucked a flower, gently twirling it to her nose. However all was not perfect. There were times when Dickon could trace every emotion that would pass through Mary, though these days she seemed to be guarded. But as she plucked another flower, he could notice a flash of fretful sadness disappear like lightning across her face. His face drew into a more serious attitude as his eyebrows bunched together in a more confused state. He slowly walked up to her, wondering what could be the matter.

Mary saw him coming out of the corner of her eye, sighing at her trembling heart. His lean, sturdy body was no boy's, and definitely no gentleman's either. He was dressed in his work pants, suspenders wrapped over a thin material shirt, the top unbuttoned revealing part of his upper chest. Mary shifted over so that Dickon could lower himself down beside her, crossing his legs. Flowers enveloped them like an enchanting toxin. He took off his cap and placed it on the ground, revealing his mussed brown hair. Dickon stared at her, waiting for a moment to catch her eye. Mary donned him a wavering smile. Dickon usually knew best to give her space during times like this, such as whenever she talked about her parents, but he felt as though this were different somehow.

"Miss Mary, t'is somethin wrong? Tha' seems to be distressed today."

Mary stared at him in surprise, her face pale. Did he know about her feelings? Good God, it would be horrendous if he had any clue. Dickon gazed at her with friendly concern, waiting for an answer. Mary sighed; she might as well tell him part of the truth. The previous amusement slowly drifted from her eyes as she plucked yet another flower from the ground. Her face was drawn with apprehensive weariness, her eyes taking on a sad form.

"I'm to be introduced into society, Dickon. I'm going to have a coming-out ball next week. Apparently, according to Miss Medlock, I am that of an age to show the world that I am now a woman." Mary laughed at this statement. "Though I feel like a child most of the time anyway."

Dickon didn't even blink an eye.

"Why, Miss Mary, why are tha' so saddened by this? Yeh get to dres' up nice and fancy, an' I know you well enouh' to know that thee sometime' dres' up in tha' mam's dresses for fun, this time t'is for real."

Mary flung the lavender flower to the side.

"You don't understand, Dickon. This isn't about playing dress-up in my mother's evening gowns. It means that I am to show the world that I am an adult. I don't want to grow up, I don't want to go to debutante balls and pretend I'm happy."

Suddenly she became nervous, looking down shyly.

"It also means that I am to begin looking for marriage prospects. Miss Medlock is quite adamant that I marry and marry well. I, I don't…"

For the life of her Mary could not finish her sentence, instead staring away at the swaying swing. She caught a glimpse of Dickon's face, pure stoicism. All he did was stare at her softly, his eyes softening in concern. Mary could not resist a stab of disappointment. What did she expect? An outraged cry, a body trembling with anger? Dickon didn't say a word, just continued to stare at her unwaveringly. She felt tears well up in her eyes, he didn't care, and he never would. Mary stood up abruptly, the lavender petals lying on her lap swiftly falling to the ground, falling from grace. Dickon got up slowly, his eyes never releasing hers. He was taller then her, and Mary refused to strain her neck to look up to him, instead staring at the door.

"I, I should go. Miss Medlock would like for me to have a gown fitting as soon as possible. Now is as good as a time as any."

She let herself have one single glance at him.

"Goodbye Dickon", she said softly, turning around and hurrying out the door.

As soon as Mary left the gardens she burst into tears and ran as fast as she could to the manor, in case Dickon would see her crying. However, if she had remained a few moments more in the encaged doors, she would have noticed how Dickon hadn't moved from his spot, staring vacantly at the door. His fists were clenched and his body was tense with surprised emotion. His beautiful blue eyes, normally so full of life, were dull and cold as any Yorkshire winter.

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**I actually feel the need to apologize about this chapter, I think it's kind of dumb, but right now it is 2:00 in the morning so please forgive me. I believe I represented Dickon in a completely different way then I wanted to portray him, so don't be surprised at possible future changes to this chapter. I also saw some new stories which I eagerly read. Awesome stories to those writers. Anyway, here's thanks to my reviewers.**


	4. IV

_Swiftly flew the fragrant hours,_

_Ever faster sped the days;_

_All too soon was childhood ended_

_Save for memories._

"_Childhood" -Baker_

**Chapter 4**

The clock struck suddenly, its heavy beat echoing in the silhouette of the fleeting day, halos of rays whispering sweet goodbye's to the sun-scorched carpet. The oak-embossed windows lined like trumpeters alongside the lengthy hallway, sunlight hazily trapped amongst the dust-sprinkled panes. Mary sat upon one of the numerous antique chairs; her normally straight posture slumped over in boredom. Her uncle, the dear Mr. Craven, had summoned her from her chambers almost half an hour ago, and here she sat in the lobby in complete and utter silence trying desperately to be patient, her resolve to sit quietly quickly fading away. So here she sat, whittling away the dreary minutes and desperately trying to push the thoughts of the previous day in the garden away into the recesses of her mind. But good Lord, it was impossible! The humiliation Mary felt after her breakdown burned like a scorched thread in the pit of her stomach. Dickon must have thought her a child, a mere girl of weak disposition!

'The dolt must have no idea why I ran off, so ignorant,' Mary thought to herself, her head briefly trembling with irritation at Dickon's naivety to her emotions. Luckily she did not gain another opportunity to see the young Sowerby, primarily as she made it a point to avoid any such occurrences. How she wished Colin was here, he could always take her mind off her problems. He tried visited Misselthwaite manor every weekend, but the temptations of the city strung him like a puppeteer. In the meantime, she knew it was in her best interest to stay away from Dickon and let her feelings subside. But these intended avoidances could not prevent Mary from reminiscing in silent reverie. Gracious, he did look dashing, even if it was in his work clothes. As if he owned any other, but still…

'Enough! No more! No point in mooning over a lad who couldn't give a shilling about me!" Mary shook her head desperately and angrily wiped the brimming tears, threatening to paint along her creamy cheeks. In embarrassment at herself, Mary curled her legs up onto the velvet-cushioned chair and let her tears fall behind the soft folds of her dark dress, her face hidden behind the curl of the black tights surrounding her knees. Wrapping her arms around her legs, Mary closed her eyes as the world faded away with escaping tears. The dull roar of the grandfather clock drifted away as though silence itself wooed the noise into submission. Blackness overtook her as Mary finally fell into an entirely different realm altogether, a web of dreams weaving its tale.

_Even in her dreams she could not escape the Indian heat, the soil itself scorched in a burned haze. The sky hung close to land, a heavy shroud of burdened sunlight and heat that dully inched its way into every particle that stood in its path. The sweet scent of honey wafted throughout the land, a permanent reminder of India's beauty. She knew she was sitting down in relative comfort, gazing softly out the exotically-curved window that stood downtrodden in a pathetic contrast to the swift painted streaks of the brilliant sunset outside that ensnared all of India. A gold corset of color consumed the blood-red sun as it hung by a thread, saturating the remains of the day. A small sigh escaped her lips as she gazed wistfully into the darkening sky, who knew that a sky could be painted gold? The black silhouette of Indian architecture hemmed the horizon, reaching like desperate arms to the glory of the stretching sky. An infant's cry in the background broke suddenly in her thoughts, annoyance rising swiftly. She clenched her jaw for a moment, before eventually letting the world drown away in the sorrows of her past, as she herself let her mind fall into the blanketed harps of serenity. She let her head slowly waft towards the vanity table in which she sat in front of, her arrow-curved lips softening as she gazed at the trinkets that sat immobile on the laced trim. Her delicate glass perfume bottles, silken strings of pearls entwined with diamond earrings, en-coupled in Victorian mirth. However as her mind settled on her most prized possession, she let her eyes crinkle with foreign amusement. She lifted her pale hand to catch the ivory elephant as it stood, solitary, as stoically as any English soldier, and placed it on the windowsill. She allowed herself to gaze unabashedly at her trinket, admiring the silhouette of the once alabaster hide to be darkened by the drowning haze of gold-streaked sky. All sound was tucked away as peace overcame her._

"_Memsahib! Memsahib, come, I beg of you!" _

_Her head snapped up in startled awakening as her eyes blinked into the reflection of the mirror. Her mouth opened in horror, barely noticing the image of the sari-cloaked ayah standing in the background, her creamy dark hands wringing in worry. Her own eyes widened as she stared at her own image, a beautiful woman with dark, enveloping hair, tear-drop earrings, and spice enriched eyes that were not her own. Who was this stranger? It was a woman that adorned herself with the most delicate of jewellery, and subtly let her silk, violet laced-hemmed dress to slip off a pale shoulder. A diamond glinted from her shaking fingers, and she glanced in shock to the young Indian woman. _

"_Please, Memsahib, your young one is very ill!" the ayah cried worriedly, "Mary must attend to a doctor!"_

_However she was no longer listening, as her eyes had already drifted in dawning realization to the windowsill to where the ivory elephant still stood in its fixed state, its unbroken trunk elongated towards the sky. _

"My goodness gracious child! Now is hardly the time to be sleeping! Wake up girl!"

Mary's entire body jolted awake as rough hands pushed violently against her shoulder. She jerked her body into sitting position as her startled eyes rested on a rather impatient Miss Medlock. She towered over the young girl, her fists resting angrily against the straps of both sides of her apron, her face slightly red from exertion.

"My word, what your poor uncle must be thinking having an unruly child such as yourself in his household!"

Mary, however, was no longer listening. Instead she reflected somewhat moodily on her dream.

"Miss Medlock, you have just awakened me from the oddest dream, I was…"

The older woman shook her head impatiently.

"Now is not the time for idle chit-chat girl, you have kept your uncle waiting long enough, it was no more then two minutes that he sent for your very presence."

Mary cocked an eyebrow at this. 'More like half an hour past", she thought rather testily to this. She barely had any time to form a reply to the housekeeper as her body was violently jerked to standing position, and she felt the two chapped hands steer her shoulders into the direction of her uncle's den.

"Go child, you are severely trying my patience. I must take my leave; do not in any circumstance take up any more of your Master Craven's time! Now go on!"

With that Miss Medlock swiftly turned away, a black shroud of determination stalking down the hallway. Mary momentarily paused to stick her tongue out at her, before running down the carpeted-length of a parallel hallway, her heels echoing in the din of one of Misselthwaite's many passages. When she arrived at her uncle's doorway, she paused for a moment to catch her breath and try to maintain an air of maturity, unaware of the shadow moving beside one of the standing pillars near the bookcases. Just as she lifted a hand to knock on the great oak doors, she felt a firm hand clasp her around her arm and pull her into the surrounding shadows of the grand velvet curtains. Before Mary had a chance to cry out in alarm, a sturdy finger pressed suddenly onto her lips. Her eyes widened as she recognized the shifting colors of the pair of eyes presented towards her. It was Dickon! He was pressed against her, pinning her arms to her side, the length of his body taking in the curve of her own. Mary was unable to prevent a flash of anticipation surge through her body, but maintained a look of confusion on her vulnerable face. Dickon reluctantly took his finger away from her lips, and his eyes softened in happy amusement as he gazed down to her. Though her tongue felt heavy, Mary felt obligated to speak first.

"You seem to be taking delight in sneaking up on me recently, Dickon." She spoke dryly.

Dickon grinned in response. Mary's eyes widened in sudden realization.

"But what on earth are you doing in here, if Miss Medlock catches you it would be a disaster!"

His eyes crinkled in amusement.

"Aye lass, tha' it would be. But tha' should remember to whisper, or thee could get me in trouble."

Mary flushed in embarrassment, by both his remark and the sudden resurgence of the memories of the previous day.

"I couldn'a bear to see tha' so unhappy, I needed to see if thee were alright."

She smiled brilliantly up towards him.

"Oh Dickon, I'm so ashamed of how I acted. I was terribly tired and cranky, and you know how spoiled I can act sometimes. Please forgive me, you would wouldn't you? I know I can be awful some days."

He grinned cheekily.

"Aye, that I could. But for a price."

Mary's eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. Dickon stared down at her, his eyes drawn towards a glistening corner of her lower lip.

"And what could that be?"

Suddenly Dickon's eyes turned cold, as he realized what he was saying. His face turned beet red and he jumped away from her as though she were fire itself. He took his cap off and ran a shaky ran through his coarse hair.

"I dinna mean anything, I was jus' teasing is all."

Mary donned him a small smile, still having the feeling that something was amiss. They stared at each other for a moment, reminiscent of when they were both children and used to share a swing together, gazing softly at one another. Dickon swallowed hard, a quick flash of uncertainty replaced by his usual amused demeanour occurred so quickly even he was amazed by the transformation. However a sound of shuffling feet in the next room snapped both their attentions away from each other and towards the door. Mary looked hurriedly back at him.

"I must go now, my uncle is expecting me."

Dickon nodded his head in resigned understanding. His hand slipped from Mary's as she turned towards the door. As he turned away back into the shadows, he glimpsed Mary turning her head towards him.

"You are my best friend Dickon, I hope you know that."

With that the door swung open, and a jovial Mr. Craven took Mary by the shoulder and they disappeared into the blackness of the room, softly illuminated by the flickering fire. Dickon's eyes changed into a curious color as he momentarily pondered her words. They were meant to give him comfort, but it failed to give him completion.

**_First of all, apologies must be in order to all my extremely patient reviewers. I could not be sorry enough for failing to update this chapter, and I hope that I will be forgiven. I'm making a few changes as well, I'm going to stop writing down individual reviewer remarks and instead start using that new reply thingy, unless it's by an anonymous or whatever in which I will thank them here. I'm still uncertain about Dickon's character, and I should have worked on the ending a bit longer, but I was much too impatient. Again I am so terribly sorry about failing to update. I hope you understand, and I would love to see more reviews. P.S. Is this new double format better or worse? Thanks!_**


	5. V

_Childhood is a fountain welling,  
Trace its channel in the sand,  
and its currents, spreading, swelling,  
Will revive the withered land._

"_Childhood"- Bates _

**Chapter 5**

As much as Mary could claim to respecting her dear uncle wholeheartedly, she reluctantly admitted that he was by far no longer the role of moral perfection that used to be entrenched in her childish eyes. Much to her chagrin, she had to accept that he was yet another victim succumbing to the ghastly act of incessantly smoking one damn cigar after the other. A habit Mary Lennox hardly approved of, and likely never would. In fact, back when she attended the prestigious Miss Manners School of Etiquette ( a year that she would rather have forgotten), she was proud to claim status as head organizer of the **C**ommittee of the **P**revention of **C**hauvinism, **S**exism, **C**igar **S**moking, and **O**ther **R**epellent **A**cts of **Man**kind. However, as much as Mary would like to fondly dwell on her somewhat (_hardly_) suffragette movements _(No more little white gloves!) _in her girlhood schooling, that particular story must be reserved for another day in which her ego has not met her daily quote of personal fulfillment in the act of changing the world.

Now, where were we?

Ah yes, the charming act of lung-scorching.

Upon entering the den, it was this particular addiction beheld by her beloved Uncle Archie that was the first to greet Mary, much to her chagrin. The wisps of smoke wove along the curves of her nose, whisking like veins across the plains of her nostril and tickling the hairs, emitting a rather unladylike sneeze from yours truly. Accompanying this untimely noise were the harsh barks of her uncle's hounds, undoubtedly adding a firm agreement in recognition of her vexation. Mr. Craven, who had escorted her inside instantly quieted the dogs and left her side so she could get her bearings. Wisely sidestepping the golden beasts lounging by the oaken entrance, Mary raised her head, still stiff from her unsettling nap, in order to gain a perspective on her surroundings.

The room itself was essentially a four-walled chamber of darkness, choking life from nature's naïve youth and replacing it with the intoxication of the jaundice stained memories of time past. This was not a particularly negative aspect. In fact of all things Mary felt comforted by the wise integrity the room seemed to encompass. Despite the haze of smoke circling overhead, the darkness in which the looming walls bequeathed to its musty presence, and the mere fact that the den itself slightly reeked of stale youth and a decaying past, the spicy scent of peppermint and the cackling laughter of the dying flames in the fireplace soothed Mary always, forever associating these aspects to the uncle she adored.

Above all she loved how the glow of the flickering flames strung itself like webs across the crooks and crannies of the room, disappearing into the soft grains embedded into the darkly-varnished bookcases or creeping along the pages of whatever novel happened to seduce its rays. Orbs of light bounced off the golden letters that were etched along the spines of the numerous books that seemed to inhabit every wall. One could envision a group of scholarly men, in their intellectually imperial stance, lounging about and reminiscing about the days when morality was still a virtue, or debating current politics.

"Welcome Mary, I trust you did not have to wait long?"

Her uncle's voice snapped Mary back into reality, jarring every nerve in her body awake. A sweet smile graced her rose-tinted lips and she replied in a soft voice, ignoring the fact that she had waited outside long enough to take a well deserved nap.

"No Sir, I did not. It is to my understanding that you beckoned my presence, Uncle?"

Archibald Craven lounged comfortably in the deadly curve of his imposing velvet armchair, the raven-like shoulders veiling the unsightly hardened knob that had conquered the once supple muscles of his lean back. Though his excessively long dark hair hung matted around his pale face, a stark contrast to the imposing bearing of his nose, a capricious smile lit up his ageing eyes upon viewing his beloved niece.

"Yes Mary, I did. It has come to my seemingly slow knowledge that you are nearing a very sacred age…oh, goodness, I forgot. Forgive me my impertinence; there is someone I would like to introduce you to."

"Uncle?"

"Dearest niece, it would be my fondest pleasure to introduce to you the esteemed Lady Margaret du Bont."

With a startled glance Mary's eyes traversed to the left of the lofty armchair, undoubtedly surprised that she had not noticed the figure upon the initial inspection of the den.

Time slowed to a ticking stop as the world held its breath, hanging on to reality by an almost imperceptible thread. The figure, very nearly hidden by the high-backed chair which encased the silhouette, turned its profile almost seductively towards the speaker. Mary gasped, her eyes resting on the most beautiful woman she had ever laid eyes on, with the possible exception of her own mother.

The first attribute she noticed was the fiery intensity of the stranger's hair, donning the same scorching heat as the dying sun that fell to its knees every evening. It draped around her delicate features like when a silken curtain couples with the wall, forming a fashionable knot at the base and wrapping around the curve of a pale collarbone. The slopes of almost scandalously revealed shoulders arched like a winding fairy kiss, past a gentle swan-like neck to disclose the masterpiece of perfection. Lips carved by Cupid himself, bows and arrows fit for Athena's grace. A Grecian nose delicately displayed to full advantage against the milky satin skin. Her eyes, however, transfixed Mary in a complete state of awe. They were like steel, pinpointing her prey to deadly accuracy.

The woman was middle-aged, to be sure, but was the epitome of flawlessness. In her face was bestowed Aphrodite's gift of beauty. Her entire demeanour seemed serene and calm, yet in her eyes lay a mocking beckoning, her lips sweetly curving into a snake-like arch. Without taking her eyes off Mary, the Lady spoke serenely to Archie in a sultry undertone.

"My dear Lord Craven, it would not have been necessary to point her out for me, I could recognize this slip of a girl in any situation. She is the spitting image of her beloved mother."

At this sentence Mary's entire core grew frigid and barren. Taking a more composed stance, she interrupted the silent exchange without hesitation.

"You knew my mother?" replied Mary in a cold voice, almost baritone with veiled emotion.

Though the woman's eyes darkened with unspoiled mockery, she had little time to reply as Archibald jovially reprimanded his niece.

"My dear, like I originally began, this is the Lady Margaret du Bont, I need not remind you to address her accordingly to her title."

Blushing, Mary lowered her eyes and tried to soothe her flustered state.

"Pardon me my unprepared demeanour, your Ladyship. I was not aware that we were expecting company; I… forgive me, the staff here made no indication of any expected guests."

Satisfied that Mary corrected her etiquette, the Lord Craven continued on.

"Yes, well, her Ladyship arrived rather late last night. The staff, other then Medlock, has yet to know of her presence. Anyhow, you may not have realized it, dear niece, but Madam du Bont happened to be a particularly close friend to your very own mother. They were both wed to high ranking members of the army, as your father once was, and it is to my understanding that they became very close in their similar circumstances."

It was during his speech that the Ladyship regally evicted her seat on the chair and composed herself in a standing position, a serene disposition consuming her person. When she spoke, the words floated out like delicate webs of dust. Silken and clear, she spoke with the confident assurance that only the highest bred could obtain.

"It is truly a gift to finally meet you, Ms. Lennox, you have no idea how long I have dreamt of this moment. The very sight of you brings back fond memories of times long past, has it truly escaped your notice that you look remarkably similar to your dear mother?"

Upon seeing the reaction on Mary's face, Her Ladyship placed a delicate finger on her lips as she giggled softly, her laughter tinkling like silver bells.

"There is not need to look so alarmed, dear; your mother happened to be one of the most beautiful women I have ever known. Much more desirable then I ever was I'm envious to say. It is unfortunate for me that until recently meeting your dear uncle, I knew very little about you. I'm afraid that due to her situational obligations in India and my own responsibilities in Arabia I was never able to manage to form an acquaintance with either you or your father, much to my dismay."

With this the bitterness frosted on Mary's eyes like an eclipse.

"That hardly surprises me, Madam; my mother hardly recognized my own existence much less spread the knowledge that she even had a daughter for fear that my presence would embarrass her in some petty way. And as for my father, he was merely her messenger boy who beckoned to her every call and whistle."

The cruel steel of her Ladyships eyes softened imperceptibly.

"Whatever your mothers intentions were for your welfare, please know this. I want to help replace any negativity you have of your parents and provide you with, well, possibly the mother-figure that you seem to have lacked all these years."

With that the Lady Margaret strode a few steps forward to clasp Mary's hand and entwine them with her own.

"May I call you Mary?" Without waiting for an answer, she tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind Mary's shell-lobed ear. "Mary, I would love nothing more then for us to become friends and confidantes. I myself never had a daughter, only a son, and it would be my honour to take you under my wing."

Mary stiffened her neck, shock consuming her entire being, Politely trying to disentangle her fingers from the creamy hands of this so-called benefactress, she managed to compose a serene smile in response.

"My Lady, I am very much surprised to hear that you would take time off from your personal life in order to further mine, but you needn't do so. Though I am honoured by your attention, and I would like to pursue an amicable relation with you, I really don't need a mother. I have my friends and my dear uncle Craven to support me, and as for female companionship I am blessed with the company of the staff and sometimes even the head housekeeper!"

With this her Ladyship sniffed disdainfully.

"Ah yes, the servants. I hardly think they are appropriate beings for whom to introduce you into the wonders and excitement of society."

Lord Craven, who had spent the entire time gazing at Lady Margaret with unhidden admiration, decided it was time to interject. Preventing a groan escaping his lips as he stood up, he hobbled over to where the two stood. Mary was struck at how old he seemed to aged in recent years. The lump on his back seemed to consume his entire body as his looming figure was hunched over her. He placed two sturdy hands on his niece's shoulders and looked at her so tenderly that one would have thought they were truly father and daughter.

"My dear, upon your arrival to Misselthwaite Manor, it has always been my harshest regret that I could not provide you with a mother figure. I wish to death my dear Lillias were still here to this day, not just for my benefit but to show you, our own niece, and a world that is not entirely encompassed by old decrepit men like me. And as neither my dear wife nor your mother could not be there for you to aid you into your entrance into adulthood, it is my wish that you would accept the Lady Margaret's proposition.

Mary looked down in shame, the sweep of her eyelashes blanketing her pale skin. The Lady placed a hand on Archie's back, apparently not noticing the shiver of contact.

"Sadly, due to untimely mischance I was not bestowed the honour of meeting your aunt", Her Ladyship said softly, ignoring the sadness that crept into Archie's weathered eyes. "However I am very much glad to meet her niece, whom I can see for my very self has inherited the manners and grace of an accomplished society woman."

With this Mary blushed, and looked at both of them fondly, a slight smile gracing her lips. She looked at the beauty that emanated from Madam du Bont, her obvious female resplendence revelling in the maturity only a woman can truly know. She thought of all the embarrassing times when she had to turn to Martha or, heavens forbid, Miss Medlock when it came to feminine matters as undergarments or monthly courses. It would have been so much pleasanter to have already been taught the changes in a woman's body instead of running to Medlock one sunny afternoon screaming that you were bleeding incessantly and thus must be dying. (Mary shuddered at that memory).

Unwittingly her thoughts flew back to her dearest Dickon, already a man and already graced with adult superiority. Perhaps if Madam du Bont were to teach her the womanly ways that could attain the love and respect of any man (unaware that Dickon already had the highest admiration for her) then perhaps it would be in her best interest to follow their advice and become the Ladyships companion. She could already envision the awe Dickon would have if she too had the confidant beauty that the Madam could bless her with. After all, it was not as though they were conniving and conspiring against her, they did indeed care for her. With one last sweet smile and choosing her words carefully in her mind, she nodded to the both of them. 'For Dickon', she told herself.

"If you could indeed help me expand my maturity as a woman, I would be honoured for any help you could bless me with, my Ladyship."

With a jovial pat on the back from Lord Craven, Mary helped him back to his haven of an armchair. In doing so, she did not notice the dangerous glint flashing in the steel cold eyes of Madam du Bont. With a final smirk, her Ladyship returned her delicate profile to continue gazing into the fire.

* * *

**So, as I was addressing to myself why there were huge breaks between uploading chapters, I came to the conclusion that though The Secret Garden holds a special place in my heart, I tend to get distracted by other books and movies. It is so like me; I'll be fascinated with one movie and start a fiction piece before being enticed by a different one. You have no idea how many fiction pieces I began to write but stopped, telling myself this story has got to come first. Luckily, I see myself being further entwined into my love of the Secret Garden, and I'm already envisioning further scenarios. I tend to dislike adding new characters, but Madam du Bont has a critical part to play. I love all my reviewers like crazy and they are the absolute biggest reason why I sat down today and wrote this. Only I wish I could have added more of Dickon as a reward for my fervent reviewers who adore seeing them together, but it was essential to get this chapter out of the way. I recently received a review that gave me a good tip to try to add more dialogue to this story, and I couldn't agree with them more. It is my biggest fault, too much description and very little dialogue. However I too am maturing as an amateur and young writer, so taking these tips into account I hope that you can see them appear in future readings. Thanks so much! **


	6. VI

_A loss of innocence,  
And of a childlike, blithe spirit,  
Happened before it ever could develop.  
I grew old while still in a child's body;  
being an adult for the world's eyes was all I knew._

"_Lost of Innocence"- Snyder_

**Chapter 6**

The ice-tipped wind beckoned to the seduction of the vast fields, the morning tide of infinity. The heavy clouds languished in silent mirth, mocking daylight within its perpetual gloom and rendering humanity obsolete. The coils of breeze sung in melodic angst, thieving life from its decadent glory. 'Death by Harmony', thought Dickon absently, his eyes briefly sealing his existence from reality. A veil of frost coated the landscape on this unusually frigid spring morning, enveloping the young man in its forbidding embrace. For a moment in time the world seeped through the confines of fantasy as Dickon fell into oblivion, his senses heightening to new lengths. The crunch of hardened blades of grass reverberated in his ear, meadow larks betraying their hidden nests due to an overwhelming need to sing. With a dithering hesitation, he opened his eyes yet again, intimately taking pleasure as the remains of the day captivated his sight. His eyes shifting to a silver-blue as the colours wove into a tapestry of motion. Though the morning had given its sleepy welcome, a sliver of moon strung by a thread sat motionless, almost transparent in the remaining hints of periwinkle. Sultry clouds were being heralded in from the north, cantankerous in its oppressive demeanour.

'The sun will not reveal its presence today', he decided with a resolute thought of absence. The moors would sorely miss the spilled honey of golden serenity that only Belenus could bestow.

Dickon breathed in his senses, gazing lovingly over the moors that he wholeheartedly devoted himself to. He had always known, to some extent, his primal connection to these untamed fields. They were the pulse of his veins, the soul of his being and the drummer of his heart. Feral and free, Dickon revelled in the knowledge of this boundless liberty in which had cultivated him into the young man he was today.

As he gazed longingly, a ruse of chastity sprung into fruition as the seas-caped fields draped themselves further into a distant horizon, the breadth of heavenly thumbs spanning across space and time. Dickon knew that despite the initial appearance of a barren chasm of the windswept rock-laden moors there dwelt a hidden spirit, a gasp of breath in the particles of epochs. A silken sea of fossilized truths and decaying lies, marred only by the treads of mortal toes. A chariot of time, sweeping an epic of change. This was his home, captured in its record of prehistory and early mankind entrenched in its own craggy appearance. His life, his blood.

Sprawled in a ballet of ancient mystery and lore reeked the initial stench of perdition, only to have freedom sung though the salt of thousands of grass-embedded waves. A drapery of silence, a wisp of truth, only in the moors could a man truly see the human within himself- or so Dickon believed. There were much more to the moors then an occasional shepherd's flock or crag-like rocks. It was the fragrance of an antiquated past encased in a glass cage of immortality that enraptured him so. Between the infinite seconds and the star-bred molecules of time-encrusted fields lay the imperceptible acres of words and song, ancient scrolls and whispers of time weaving into the sanctity of Dickon's mind. Let the clouds weep in heavenly grace, their silver-laden tears could never wholly erase the imprints of history etched in the bark of the past. Nor the crowned-capped mares, impregnated with Poseidon's own pearl-eyed foals, could bestow an untouched canvas of new as they galloped to other destinies.

The moor was hypocritical in every sense of the word. The gnaws of fate stained with the presence of unbearable loneliness, the mirrors of haunting echoes of mortal grievances. This is the first impression given to an innocent, but Dickon knew better. Sorrow-laden ecstasy and sun-kissed frowns, the contrasts of humanity with the wake of the endless moor. These fields encompassed who he was, and though he was a solitary soul, he was a loving one. It was encompassed by wick, tormented by sweetly slow decay.

Dickon too had sprung from the womb of its existence, half fey abandoned by the wee folk of ancient myths foretold. Nourished by stardust and raised in child-like infinity, he grew, the moors shaping alongside him. These fields were his earthly companions, cradling him when he fell, mourning his sadness upon the loss of innocence. In return they told him the untouchable truths of the spirit, spilling gossip of other-worldly knowledge. And, with a turn of the lip, he locked their words away. They told him sorrowful tales, a sadness seen by none, secrets locked in the recesses of time itself. Known to no souls, except to a mere Yorkshire lad, a myriad of tales springing from the knowledge given from the landscape.

Even the Oracles of Delphi would have spilled the messages of the cosmic truth, but unlike those sensuous women of time past, young Dickon Sowerby knew his place in the scheme of universality. He was the keeper of secrets, not a philosopher of tales and enlightened realizations revealing to those less worthy to hear it's moral. Dickon, who can recognize the continuance of the soul of every earthly creature, he is enveloped in time itself, beauteous soul indeed! He did not seek out existential prophecies, rather only the comfort of home. Though that might seem considerably simple-minded to an everyday man, it was all he lived for. That, and for a cheeky young lass that dwelt in the manor to the North.

It was here upon the moor that Dickon stood, a solitary figure in the compass of field and gothic silence. He was a resolute figure upon a frost-veiled landscape. Gazing into the shroud of sorrow that the Misselthwaite manor seemed to be ensconced in, he was blindly ignorant of the heavy footsteps that appeared behind him, and it was only until he felt the powerful hand that clapped him across the back that he was jarred back into reality.

"Wake up lad, and get tha' arse back to work, ye lazy git!"

Without stripping his gaze off the manor, Dickon felt a smile tug at the corner of his lip as he responded, bemused.

"Why, tha' canna' be lazy without me?"

Still staring to the North, Dickon grinned wholeheartedly as he felt the sturdy hands turn his strong frame and face the source of his interruption, chuckling as he tore his gaze from Misselthwaite. He turned around and faced the brawny figure of Will Blakely.

"Tha knows perfectly well that somebody between the two of us needs to work, and it sure bloody well is not going to be me."

Will was a twenty year old youth from a neighbouring farm in Yorkshire. Brawny and monstrous as he was, a face ravaged by pockmarks hardened lines, he had a tender soul that could charm the harshest beast. At the back of Dickon's mind he always wondered if his friend could tame even the cruel Miss Medlock, a theory of which he severely doubted. They had met as young children, before the arrival of the young mistress, and the two had instantly formed an unlikely friendship. It was a friendship that that forced Dickon back into reality, a necessity at his age. Behind Will stood two disdainful mares, both pawing impatiently at the ground.

"Now, because thou' art are a might fool and forgot to fetch tha horse, I brought her to thee."

With a tender grin Dickon strode to his grey mare whom he had lovingly named Polly, and though he knew she could never replace the young pony he had as a young boy, he could tell that she had an old soul much like his dear old friend. Will watched with an eyebrow raised at the sight of Dickon patting his horse, disbelief consuming his features.

"I still canna' believe that Lord Craven actually gave thee a horse, a horse for Christ sakes! I should get me self a job up there an' act all hoity toity and then maybe I could get an entire herd."

Dickon smiled absently, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

"They aren't so bad, I canna' say they treat me wrong."

Despite Will's rough and tumble appearance, he had a healthy appreciation for Dickon's quiet, hardworking ways. Dickon himself was always willing to tell everything and anything to Will, but he rarely shared his time spent at Misselthwaite. He knew that if they did, the conversation would somehow drift to the young Mary Lennox, and Dickon had enough worries to think about as it was. Will wasn't even aware that Dickon even knew the young mistress of the Manor, much less understood the friendship that bonded them to the Garden. This of course was for a very simple cause- Mary Lennox was off limits. He would never openly talk about the girl, for fear that he might let too much be known about her. His thoughts of her were sacred, a sanctity that gave him peace in any situation. All Will knew of Dickon's involvement with the manor was the mere fact that Martha Sowerby worked as a maid in its grey confines, and every so often Lord Craven himself would commission Dickon for aid in the tending of the gardens and landscapes. And, speaking of work…

"What's it today then, Will?"

His friend sighed and swung himself on the other horse.

"Workin' at the smithy in exchange for lunch, then afterwards haulin' bags of coal. We best get going, ye' know how he is about being on time."

Dickon laughed softly, grinning at his friend.

"Aye, I remember the time he boxed your ears for chattin' up Kate Reilly 'stead of doing tha job."

Will grimaced at the memory, before shifting his features and replacing them with a fond smile, which thus transformed into a hearty grin.

"It was worth it, me mate. Believe me, it was worth it."

With a chuckle Dickon thumped Polly gently on her bristled neck. Leaning his face in the curve of her slender head, he whispered softly into her ear.

"Ows that me luv, ready to go into town then?"

With a single, swift movement Dickon hauled himself over his horse, not bothering with a saddle, landing with a gentle ease. Running his fingers over her dapper coat, he felt the bristles rise in static excitement. With a click of his tongue she spun into motion, her sleek muscles uncoiling in fervent excitement. Throwing a cocky grin over to Will, he spoke in a calm tone, nonchalant in its deceiving attitude.

"Race you."

With that the art of motion unfurled into a frenzy of movement. Like chariots of mist and fog, they raced alongside the indelible curve of the elongated fields, freedom in their wake.

The wind swept in cascades of moaning angst, clutching at every unfortunate obstacle and screeching in agonizing labour. Billowing with resolute sadness, it no longer dared to shadow its presence in the face of mere mortals. The shattered leaves rising in incensed quarrel to the quakes of Aeolus furiously pirouetting in the whispers of the wind, reaping the virginity of innocent meadows. Yes, it was sufficient to say that this particular afternoon was a windy day. This day also happened to mark the first outing Mary and her Ladyship embarked on together. Arm in tentative arm, the two strolled down the weaving passageways alongside this tucked in village, giggling like schoolgirls as they found common interest to enlist conversation.

The wind sifted in delirious delight, thumbing through Mary's wild hair.

With a chuckle, the Lady du Bont wove her fingers through the girl's unruly locks.

"My word, child, is it always like this in Yorkshire? I cannot fathom it is this bad in London."

Laughing, Mary gazed up at the Lady with twinkling eyes.

"After a while you come to love it, my Ladyship. It is as though the keeper of the time and wind is showing his indignation at us, and has decided to let us know about it."

With a raised eyebrow, the Lady du Bont responded in a tone of exaggerated surprise.

"Oh! I see we have a poet in our midst!"

With a bellow and screech, the wind unfurled and unleashed a bitter whip of cold. With a gasp, Mary clutched at her hair too late, her wide brimmed hat flinging off her head and spinning into the cobble-stoned market place. With a laughing cry Mary raced after it, although it was all for nought. With a flicker and a twirl, it disappeared in the many dark shadows that slithered from the alleys. With a disappointed 'humph', Mary watched sullenly as her prey slipped between her fingers. Margaret du Bont walked in graceful cadence over to where the young girl stood defeated, laughing softly with cold eyes. With a silky voice, she turned Mary around to face her.

"My darling girl, though it pleases my heart to see you happy, I feel as though it is my duty to warn you that it is not proper of a lady of your stature to be scampering about like one of the villagers."

Mary looked up in curiosity.

"I apologise your Ladyship, forgive my impertinence. But to be quite frank, I must admit to some surprise at your statement. After all, is it not true that running does improve one's health?" She spoke the last statement in a teasing manner, hoping to lighten the situation.

Margaret smiled tenderly, placing a pale hand on the curve of Mary's lilac cheek.

"Quite right, my dear. However, you will soon come to learn that in proxy of exercise, we have the highly desirable corsets. Of course, I shan't speak of such things, it is hardly appropriate for a lady such as yourself."

With a confused smile, Mary tried to ignore the dread that crept in her soul upon the mention of a corset. An image of Miss. Medlock rose to the surface, subsequently followed by a shudder. With an excited laugh, her Ladyship cupped her hands around Mary's face, and with twinkling eyes, cried out.

"None of this then! I promise you, no more dreary talk of propriety! Let's move on, shall we?"

With that they linked arms yet again, laughing quietly over mundane details and thus braved the fierce rhythm of wind with the force of two. Before long, however, the Lady du Bont breached another topic of conversation.

"Were you aware that I have a son?"

Mary cocked an eyebrow.

"I believe I heard something of the sort upon our initial introduction, Madam."

"His name is Edward, and it would please me greatly if ever you two would meet. I have no doubt that the two of you would become instant friends."

"I'm sure we would, your ladyship, she replied absently, not particularly listening."Is he attending boarding school at the moment?"

"That he is my dear. However perhaps not the same form of education your cousin Colin is receiving. Edward is much too old; 24 years of age to be exact and has already achieved his diploma... He is currently attending a military academy in Southampton and I hear is already gaining recognition amongst his superiors."

By this time Mary had ceased to listen altogether, something else had caught her eye. Amidst the snakes of rising black smoke and the haze of darkened particles of coal she saw two sturdy figures carrying rather large bags into wheelbarrows, one of whom she recognized instantaneously. It was Dickon, with his shirt sleeved rolled callously up to the elbow, his homespun breeches hidden behind a leather working apron. His brown hair was mussed up by the wind, sweat and grime etching along the hardened contours of his laboured face. Hauling bags of coals was indeed an arduous task. Dirt splattered and mud sprayed over the length of his clothes, and as tired as he was his eyes still shone with unbridled mirth. With each bag he toiled with and lifted, the muscles in his arms clenched and uncoiled, rippling with the strength bestowed on all who work manual labour.

Mary was captivated, her Ladyship was very much less so.

"It's Dickon! I have forgotten that he comes to town quite often for work. My lady, I am surprised that I have not previously mentioned him. He is my dearest friend; his sister is employed by Misselthwaite staff. Oh! It would do me good if I introduced you to him, would you like to meet him? "

With an obvious look of distaste, the Lady hastily replaced it with a look of adult maturity.

"Perhaps another time... He is after all a working man and we must not interrupt him 'lest we cause trouble for him."

This statement undoubtedly created utter devastation in the young girl's eyes, but she nodded in reluctant comprehension.

"I suppose you are correct, chances are he would not look kindly upon an interruption, nor I for that matter. Without my hat my hair is beyond repair, I would be absolutely mortified it he saw me looking so dishevelled!"

Relieved, her Ladyship instantly welcomed the opportunity to change discourses.

"Come, the hat was not befitting to you at all. It seems we have forgotten our initial purpose of coming here, and that is of course shopping. Your Uncle Archie has agreed on any purchases we might find suitable for you, does that agree with you?"

Reluctantly tearing her eyes off Dickon, she once again turned her attention back to her mother's friend.

"He is reimbursing us and our purchases?" Mary replied teasingly, "Well, by all means, we mustn't disappoint."

Giggling, her Ladyship ushered Mary into the tinted entranceway of a nearby hat shop, but she was unable to resist glancing behind her to see who had captured the admiration of her young protégée. With eyes as cruel as steel, her eyelids narrowed in aversion. She decided then and there that she would do all in her power to prevent him from affecting the impressionable Mary Lennox. However, her worry was soon consumed the clear knowledge that this Dickon lad was a mere commoner, hardly competition for her own handsome specimen of a son. Only time would tell, she thought to herself, of course with the guiding aid of her own intrusive hand.

* * *

**As always, reviews are more than welcome. :)**


	7. VII

_Some people have a childhood garden  
Filled with green and growing things  
Some people have a childhood garden  
Filled with purple peonies  
Mine is sere  
Throughout the year  
Nothing grows here_

"_Childhood Memories Sung to the Tune of Shawnee West Franklin Bison Blues"-Tim Bovee_

**Chapter 7**

It has been observed by many a person that Martha Sowerby, the seemingly demure and jovial chambermaid of Misselthwaite Manor, was indeed the epitome of goodness, in which there existed no evil thoughts in her young mind. Martha herself had for many years agreed with this generalization of her good character, until recent events had severely transformed her previous perspective on the kindness of mankind. Or, more specifically: womankind.

"Bloody ol' hag. Canna' lift a soddin' finger 'cept to order me about as though I'm her personal slave."

Grumbling under her breath, Martha did her best to ignore the current of sweat that seemed to break out with each step she climbed. Her cheeks flushed with exertion, her normally cheerful eyes were darkened with unconstrained anger. Tightly gripped in her clenched fingers were the handles of two enormous buckets filled to the brim with soapy water, most of which seemed to favour Martha's dress rather then the pail itself. The bubbling splashes that crashed to the stone floor seemed to create a dim echo in the shadowy pathway the young girl had decided to pursue. The hidden passageway that Martha was currently heaving her way through had originally been designed for servant trenches and paths for the sole purpose of sparing the wealthy residents the _"unbearable" _sight of the _"help"_. However since the manor had been under the property of the Craven lineage, there was little need for the servant corridors as the owners themselves did not concern themselves with traditional conventions. Eventually, the din of the unused passages began to decay with dust and solitude. In all her short years of service towards Misselthwaite manor, Martha never once anticipated to see herself walking in one, ducking under cobwebs and sidestepping clumps of dust.

A sudden grunt broke her out of her reverie. Betty Butterworth, the scullery maid who had recently been bumped up to kitchen maid, strode furiously towards Martha. Her cheeks were flushed in red fury, her hair slipping from its bun in angry tangles. The sight that caught Martha's attention was not the obvious vehemence in her demeanour, but the fact that on one side of her plump body were the dripping remains of clumping porridge. A tray in one hand, an empty bowl in the other, it didn't take long for the girl to figure out what had occurred. Upon their collision, Betty huffed in shaky ferocity, staring at Martha as though it was she who had caused this mishap.

"Her Majesty…" she said with deadly calm, "though' that the porridge was a… 'smidgen'… too fattening."

Sharply moving past Martha, Betty Butterworth continued on her path of vexation and utter hatred, grumbling loudly.

"I'll fatten the horrid ol' cow t'ill she bursts out of those fancy buttons. Giggling like a ninny she was after seein' me looking like her bloody breakfast tray! I wonder if she'll be laughing after I shove this bowl down her throat and…"

It did not take long for her angry mutters to be caught up into an empty abyss of mustiness and disappear into the sultry atmosphere, leaving Martha Sowerby in wild-eyed disbelief. She gazed cautiously towards the door that led to the room of Lady du Bont, and very much like the prisoner walking towards his execution; she trudged up closer and closer to the chamber, poising herself mentally for the inevitable attack.

When the attack did arise, however, it was one for which she was hardly prepared for.

Placing the buckets on the ground near the backdoor, she wiped her soapy, chapped hands on her apron before raising a hand to knock. Suddenly an arm slithered around her waist while a pale, slender hand clapped around her mouth. Martha's screams were muffled by the masculine weight of the fingers as she was swung around further down the corridor. Swiftly turning her around and placing her on the ground, the hand was replaced by a sole finger as Martha gained sight of her attacker. She was greeted by a cocky smile and a single whispered word.

"Boo."

A gasp ripped through her being as she breathed out a silent cry.

"Master Colin! You're back!"

The young master of the house had indeed arrived only an hour previous, and in silent stealth had decided to hide his presence by taking the servant corridors to avoid the usual large gatherings that often occurred upon his initial appearance. Creeping along the hidden and abandoned passageways he had traversed as a child, he was undoubtedly surprised to see a multitude of servants walking up and down its lengths. It was only be sheer luck that he was able to avoid detection thus far.

Tugging uncomfortably at his white tubular collar hiding inconspicuously under his sacque suit, his motions forced her to briefly examine the young man she helped raised.

No longer stood the meek child he once was, pale and sullen in snobbish pride. Colin was a man now, at least by his standards. His pale hair had been darkened by the years and had been trimmed around his ears in the newest style. Trim and lean, it was not a surprise that he was considered to be quite a catch in various London societal events. Though he would never get the tan that he had craved since he first gazed into a mirror, he compensated by wearing the latest fashions. Martha was always amazed that though he did appear to be even remotely related to his parents on account of their differing looks, he somehow inherited their innate air of a regal stance and an almost pompous superiority. Upon first glance Colin Craven did not strike anyone as an Adonis, however all it took was one glimpse of that cocky, boyish smile before most women were utterly captivated. Colin leaned in a relaxed stance against the wall, revelling at the shock that swept Martha's face. He was always one for surprises, and he couldn't resist teasing his old friend. A boyish grin flashed handsomely across his face as he crossed his ankles, awaiting the fury of questions.

"Master Colin! Thou were not expected! Tha room has no' been prepared, I…I... what in the name of all the saints are tha doing here so early?!"

Colin laughed softly.

"Well, it is always a pleasure to be welcomed so warmly on one's arduous arrival." He smiled at the red blush of embarrassment that crept on Martha's face. "To satisfy your obvious need for answers, I've been released from school a month early on account of excellent grades that have surpassed the curriculum. Now now, Martha, you needn't look so disbelieving. God's honest truth. You, milady, are looking at a certified honour student."

Martha raised a questionable eyebrow before Colin swept over and placed a sloppy kiss on her cheek, before returning to his usual position of nonchalance while ignoring her laughing swats.

"It's good to be home, though. Civilisation can be so dull at times, it's good to break away every now and then to return to the uncouth memories of my savage childhood home."

"Aye, a difficult childhood you led at that." Martha rolled her eyes, thinking of all his ponies and puppies and finery that he had received in his youth. Colin flicked her with his hand while pretending to be mortally offended before resuming to a different topic at hand.

"_My god, _I find myself sympathizing for the poor soul that crept into Betty Butterworth's bad conscience. For the first time I can say with any conviction '_it wasn't me'_. Who's the victim this time around then?"

The darkness that had previously escaped Martha seemed to seep back into her mind.

"Her royal high… tha' father recently invited a guest to stay here for a short while and…"

"Ah yes, the intrepid and infamous Lady du Bont." He grinned almost coquettishly while folding his arms. "He's written me often about her, and so far all I can attain about her is that she is the epitome of kindness and grace."

The only answer Martha could give was open-mouthed disbelief. Upon catching this, Colin chuckled softly.

"I supposed I may have been misled in my appeal to her character. Whatever opinion you hold of her will inevitably be mine as well. So, old friend, what do you make of her?"

To this Martha ducked her head in shame.

"Tha musna' listen to me, t'is not my place to say."

Colin snorted in disbelief.

"That's simply not true, Martha, as long as you live under this roof you shall always have your say. My goodness, you're dripping water all over yourself. Surely you're not going to attempt to clean these decrepit corridors?"

She spared a venomous glance to the room in which they were perched in front of.

"Her _Ladyship _done ask Lord Craven that the staff use tha servant corridors 'cause she has allergic an' unsightly reactions to us. As for these loads I'm a carryin', she found a smudge an' she told me to clean every window in the East wing unless I want to get sacked."

Colin's eyebrows rose in disbelief. Feeling renewed strength in her convictions, Martha's voice rose with fervour.

"T'isnt me place to say, me lord, but tha guest seems to think she's the new mistress of the Manor."

Seriousness overtook the young man's face as he pondered her words. Her words brought forth unhappy memories of the original mistress of Misselthwaite, his mother.

"Why haven't you and the other staff requested an audience with my father? He's a reasonable man, and he is not one to be prone to provide authority to his guests."

Martha shook her head in resigned resoluteness.

"I ken it'd be daft of me, I dinna want trouble with thee father. No matter, I know me place."

The bone in Colin's jaw clenched considerably. He placed two hands on the young woman's shoulders and looked at her in serious determination.

"Your place in this household is to provide friendship to all who dwell in it, for which we are most grateful. Much of my childhood happiness depended on you, especially for protection against the fearsome Miss. Medlock."

She giggled in remembrance while he cocked his head to her Ladyship's door.

"Now, you go into her room as she instructed, but don't close the door all the way. I want to hear her for my own ears."

Martha nodded seriously, before walking over to the door and let it to creak open. Only to be greeted by a malicious glance that would have caused Satan himself to take a step back.

"Well, it is _about _time!"

Martha sighed as she rolled her eyes, shrugging in Colin's direction. Picking up the buckets, she did her best to avoid the sloshing of soapy water. The room itself was no different than Mistress Mary's bedroom, however much to the consternation of many of the chambermaids they underwent hours of condescending disgust from the Lady du Bont as she initially inspected the room. It seems, in her words, that even the tribes from the remotest part of Africa would have found this bedroom to be barbaric in every possible extreme.

The curtain that covered the backdoor rustled as Colin crouched behind it, ears straining to hear every word.

Margaret du Bont was enveloped in a cascade of frothy silkiness that clung to every well-maintained curve of her not-particularly-young body. Her red hair curled innocently upon her shoulders, absent of any betraying greys. Lounging in relative comfort upon the chaise, her relaxed stance was contrasted greatly by the venom that protruded like daggers from her steel eyes. Like ice, her jagged edge of her voice was hidden under a soft and disguising cadence.

"I dare say, I cannot recall I time where I had encountered such vile incompetence!"

Martha suppressed another sigh, and smiled apologetically.

"Sorry mad'm, Miss. Medlock had chores for me down in the kitchens."

Her Ladyship tucked a fox-fur around her elegant neck, fluffing it around her as though disappearing into a turtle-shell.

"Miss. Medlock should be aware that her guests should be the highest priority during one's residence here. My goodness! I am in absolute shock of the temperature of this chamber!"

With this Martha raised a dubious eyebrow to the crackling fire heaving in the corner. It was uncommon to feed a fire until it reached this particular height in the mornings, but who was she to comment?

"No doubt it is due to the fact that the sun can hardly be expected to share its warmth when the windows are soaked with grime and dust due to the _utter_ laziness of the staff! I daresay, never have I encountered such… such ineffectual, hopeless group of people. Well then, are you going to stand there dimwitted while I freeze to death?"

Immediately Martha meekly ducked her head and continued on with her work. Straining to reach the clasp of the window latch, she was able to catch a glimpse of sandy hair ducking from the curtains. Again, she was all alone in her defence. This was her job, after all. She had grown so accustomed to the light work that the Craven's had imposed she must have inadvertently become lazy.

She vaguely pondered on his next course of action. Would Colin storm straight to his father and demand punishment, or would he in fact venture by the garden? Martha suspected it would be the latter.

What would he be like when he glimpsed his young cousin, growing ever more beautiful with each passing spring? Her bones ached with weary knowledge. She knew ever since she caught a glimpse of Dickon and Colin feverishly pushing Mary in the wheelchair that there would forever be a risk of rivalry as they each blossomed. Ignoring the stern directions of Lady du Bont in the background that was resonating through her mind, Martha prayed that they all had a good head on their shoulders. Though Mary seemed to be the most vulnerable and impressionable of the three, she doubted that the girl would suffer the brunt of rejection. No, that fate was reserved for either the rash, cocky young lord or the silent, strong labourer. A seed of hope grew within Martha as she rationalized Colin's new behaviour. He was an adult now, with a mind consumed with cold, clear logic. She prayed that he put away his competitive and selfish desire to possess from his childhood and would see beyond Mary's blossoming womanhood, and her young brother who seemed destined to watch from afar

* * *

_Okay, I realize that her Ladyship is being portrayed very much your stereotypical wealthy Mrs. Coulter-like villain. However, like all the characters, she's a work in process. Also sorry that there isn't too much Mary/Dickon in here. I can't really ignore the other characters. Don't worry, they'll get there chance._

_As always, reviews are more than welcome, Thanks:)_

_Reviews to anon. :)_

**Eddie McGee:** I'm so glad you enjoyed the previous chapter, and I was really happy to see your review. I'm worried that her Ladyships character is a bit stereotypical, but I plan on rounding her out later on.

**Rosa Cotton**: I'm surprised that someone is actually reading the poems! But I'm still glad you liked them. I have a thousand books of poetry that I flip through to find a short excerpt. I'm pretty sure I got the last excerpt from an example used in the "Oxford Book of Death". It was a sweet respite from all the moody poems.

**Pline**: I do love the whistling, lol. Thanks so much for reviewing on the chapter, it meant a lot to me. And I'm happy that you think the time period is what it is. Though I'm hoping to go for Edwardian, it's easier to have the characters speak more Victorian.

**Kit:** I really hope this story is to your expectations, and I'll try to speed it up. If you're still interested in that beta thing, just email me if you like. Anyway, your review was really heartfelt and I'm beyond honoured that you seem to be enjoying it!


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